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Authors: Sherryl Woods
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leveled a stern look straight at him. It usually worked quite well on a reluctant witness. “See that you do.”
She had no earthly idea why her words seemed to make him smile, but she caught him doing just that, even though he quickly hid it. She decided it was wisest to let the matter drop. It was evident she wasn’t winning the debate, couldn’t against a man who didn’t play by any rules and didn’t seem the least bit wary of the outcome.
“I’d better make those calls,” she said. “Is there another phone around here that’s more private? I don’t want Jamie or Josh to come in and overhear me.”
“There’s one in the den,” he said, leading her toward a small but airy room that faced the sun-splashed fields of wildflowers at the back of the house. French doors opened onto a deck and let in the rapidly warming morning breeze.
While there was a masculine feel to much of the house, this room had been designed for a woman. The view had been brought indoors with splashes of brightly colored chintz on the sofa and a collection of chintz-patterned teacups on an old oak sideboard. The furniture was scaled-down in size, too, comfortable, but far more feminine than the oversized, darkly upholstered chairs in the living room. Books, some of them lying open as if abandoned in midsentence, were scattered everywhere and ranged in topic from the latest fiction to a colorful book on quilts as art.
Grace instantly fell in love with all of it. It was thoroughly charming and such a stark contrast to the tidy, practical, modern decor in her Houston condo, where a weekly maid chased away dust and disorder.
“What a wonderful room,” she said, circling it to admire the lush combination of fabrics, the eclectic touches that hinted of Trish’s various interests. This had to be her special domain, a home office, perhaps.
“Trish’s haven, as I understand it,” Michael said, confirming her guess. “Hardy custom-built all the bookshelves and cabinets.”
“They’re beautiful,” Grace said, thinking that they, like the rest of the house he’d built, had beenimbued with such care and love. “Your sister is a very lucky woman.”
“I think she’d agree with you.” He stood there uncertainly for a moment, his gaze skimming hers. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to make those calls. I’d better make a few of my own. I have to track down a riding instructor.”
“Do you need to use the phone first?”
“I’ll use my cell phone.” He grinned. “I hid it in my briefcase in case my family got any crazy ideas about cutting off the phone service on me.”
She regarded him with a sudden burst of insight. “You know something, Michael? I think you’re almost disappointed that they didn’t.”
“Why on earth would you say that? I hated that last vacation.”
“But you liked the fact that they cared enough to make you go, didn’t you?”
He seemed startled by the observation, but then he nodded slowly. “You know, you may be right. I suppose we all want someone who’ll look out for our best interests when we forget to.” He studied her with quiet intensity. “Do you have someone who does that for you, Grace?”
“Sure,” she said blithely, hoping he would let it go at that. But of course, being Michael, he didn’t.
“Who?”
“That’s my private business,” she told him stiffly, because there was no way on earth that she would admit that she was the only person who looked out for Grace Foster. She watched herself intently for signs of burnout, scheduled vacations that took her far from Houston where no one could reach her, vacations during which she went almost as nuts as she supposed Michael did.
“Well, I just hope whoever it is does the job right,” he said softly. Then he turned and left her alone.
Grace sighed. Why was it that holed up here in Los Piños with Michael and two young boys—more people than she ever had crowded around—she suddenly felt more lonely than ever?
Before
She had no earthly idea why her words seemed to make him smile, but she caught him doing just that, even though he quickly hid it. She decided it was wisest to let the matter drop. It was evident she wasn’t winning the debate, couldn’t against a man who didn’t play by any rules and didn’t seem the least bit wary of the outcome.
“I’d better make those calls,” she said. “Is there another phone around here that’s more private? I don’t want Jamie or Josh to come in and overhear me.”
“There’s one in the den,” he said, leading her toward a small but airy room that faced the sun-splashed fields of wildflowers at the back of the house. French doors opened onto a deck and let in the rapidly warming morning breeze.
While there was a masculine feel to much of the house, this room had been designed for a woman. The view had been brought indoors with splashes of brightly colored chintz on the sofa and a collection of chintz-patterned teacups on an old oak sideboard. The furniture was scaled-down in size, too, comfortable, but far more feminine than the oversized, darkly upholstered chairs in the living room. Books, some of them lying open as if abandoned in midsentence, were scattered everywhere and ranged in topic from the latest fiction to a colorful book on quilts as art.
Grace instantly fell in love with all of it. It was thoroughly charming and such a stark contrast to the tidy, practical, modern decor in her Houston condo, where a weekly maid chased away dust and disorder.
“What a wonderful room,” she said, circling it to admire the lush combination of fabrics, the eclectic touches that hinted of Trish’s various interests. This had to be her special domain, a home office, perhaps.
“Trish’s haven, as I understand it,” Michael said, confirming her guess. “Hardy custom-built all the bookshelves and cabinets.”
“They’re beautiful,” Grace said, thinking that they, like the rest of the house he’d built, had beenimbued with such care and love. “Your sister is a very lucky woman.”
“I think she’d agree with you.” He stood there uncertainly for a moment, his gaze skimming hers. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to make those calls. I’d better make a few of my own. I have to track down a riding instructor.”
“Do you need to use the phone first?”
“I’ll use my cell phone.” He grinned. “I hid it in my briefcase in case my family got any crazy ideas about cutting off the phone service on me.”
She regarded him with a sudden burst of insight. “You know something, Michael? I think you’re almost disappointed that they didn’t.”
“Why on earth would you say that? I hated that last vacation.”
“But you liked the fact that they cared enough to make you go, didn’t you?”
He seemed startled by the observation, but then he nodded slowly. “You know, you may be right. I suppose we all want someone who’ll look out for our best interests when we forget to.” He studied her with quiet intensity. “Do you have someone who does that for you, Grace?”
“Sure,” she said blithely, hoping he would let it go at that. But of course, being Michael, he didn’t.
“Who?”
“That’s my private business,” she told him stiffly, because there was no way on earth that she would admit that she was the only person who looked out for Grace Foster. She watched herself intently for signs of burnout, scheduled vacations that took her far from Houston where no one could reach her, vacations during which she went almost as nuts as she supposed Michael did.
“Well, I just hope whoever it is does the job right,” he said softly. Then he turned and left her alone.
Grace sighed. Why was it that holed up here in Los Piños with Michael and two young boys—more people than she ever had crowded around—she suddenly felt more lonely than ever?
Before
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